Pathway to Japanese Literature

What follows may not qualify as what one would call a novel.
That being said, I myself am also at a loss as to what it should be called.
I simply tried to write about myself from four or five years ago and my surroundings at the time as they were, without fussing over details more than necessary.
Therefore, I have some concern that readers who take no interest in my—or our—life and state of mind will not find this work engaging.
But if pressed further, this concern applies equally to any novel, so I resolved to set my mind at ease and proceed with publication.
By way of preface, though I say "as they were," the arrangement of facts is not necessarily as they were.
I should add that only the facts themselves are generally presented as they were.

I

It was one clear November morning.

When I put on that constricting uniform again after so long and went to school, I encountered Naruse—also in uniform—in front of the main gate.
When I said “Hey,” he too said “Hey.”
When we entered the old brick building of the Faculty of Law and Letters together, our square caps aligned, there stood Matsuoka in his kimono before the bulletin board in the entrance hall.
We said “Hey” once again.

Standing there, the three of us discussed the coterie magazine *Shinshichō* that we were planning to publish soon.
Then the other day, Matsuoka—who rarely came to school—actually showed up and entered a classroom for History of Western Philosophy or some such class, but no matter how long he waited, there was no sign of the professor, let alone any students, appearing.
He thought it strange, went outside to ask the janitor, and related how it had been a holiday.
This sort of thing was an everyday occurrence for him—a man who, while walking with ten sen in his pocket intending to take the streetcar, had a change of heart midway, entered a tobacco shop, and calmly said, "One round-trip ticket, please."
Amidst this, a janitor—hunched like a question mark—swung the bell announcing morning classes and hurried through the entrance hall.

The morning period was now the late Professor Lawrence’s lecture on Macbeth.
After parting ways with Matsuoka and going up to the second-floor classroom with Naruse, we found a large number of students already gathered, exchanging notes and chatting idly.
We too took seats at a corner desk and discussed the novel we were trying to write for Shinshichō.
On the wall above our heads was pasted a sign that said "No Smoking."
But as we talked, we took out Shikishima cigarettes from our pockets and began smoking.
Of course, the other students besides us were also nonchalantly smoking.
Then suddenly Professor Lawrence entered, clutching his briefcase.
I had already completely smoked a whole Shikishima and thrown the butt out the window, so with nothing left to fear, I opened my notebook.
However, since Naruse still had the cigarette in his mouth, he immediately threw it down and hurriedly stamped it out with his shoe.
Fortunately, Professor Lawrence didn’t notice the wispy trail of smoke rising from between our desks.
So after finishing the attendance roll, he promptly began his lecture as usual.

The tedium of these lectures was notorious at the time.
But that morning's lecture proved especially dreary.
From start to finish, we endured an uninterrupted barrage of plot summaries.
What's more, he delivered each segment in that tiresome "Act 1, Scene 2" cadence—the monotony transcending human tolerance.
In earlier days during such ordeals, I'd often torment myself wondering what karmic misfortune had driven me to university.
By now I'd grown so resigned to my fate of enduring these extraordinary lectures that such thoughts no longer crossed my mind.
Thus I mechanically scraped my pen across paper, diligently transcribing what might as well have been English translations of Imperial Theatre synopses.
Yet as classroom hours accumulated within me, drowsiness gradually took hold.
Naturally, I resolved to sleep.

As I was dozing off - when about a page's worth of blank space had formed in my notebook - Professor Lawrence let out some sort of peculiar noise that startled me awake.
At first I thought my napping had been discovered and that I was about to be reprimanded, but looking up, there was Professor Lawrence brandishing his Macbeth text with theatrical flourish while putting on a porter's voice.
When it struck me that I too belonged to that porter's ilk, the absurdity suddenly hit me and all drowsiness vanished completely.
Beside me, Naruse kept taking notes while periodically glancing my way and snickering to himself.
Then, after defacing two or three more notebook pages, the period bell finally rang.
And so we came spilling out into the corridor outside the classroom, trailing after Professor Lawrence in a disorderly herd.

After stepping into the corridor and gazing down at the trees in the courtyard with yellowing leaves drooping from their branches, Mr. Toyoda approached and said, “Would you be so kind as to let me see your notes for a moment?”
When I opened the notebook to show him, the section Mr. Toyoda wanted to see turned out to be precisely where I had dozed off, so even I felt somewhat chagrined.
Mr. Toyoda said, “Well then, I shall take my leave,” and walked off with an unhurried air.
To say “unhurried” is by no means an arbitrary description.
In truth, he always walked with an unhurried air.
I do not know for certain where Mr. Toyoda is now or what he is doing, but among the students who held goodwill toward Professor Lawrence—or rather, whom Professor Lawrence held in goodwill—he was the sole person toward whom we—or if that phrasing is unkind, at least I myself—always felt a certain degree of familiarity.
Even now as I write this, when I recall your unhurried way of walking, I can’t help but feel a desire to stand with you once more in the university corridor and exchange even the most mundane seasonal greetings.

Amidst this, the bell rang once more, and the two of us had to head to the classroom downstairs.
This time it was Dr. Fujioka Katsuji’s linguistics lecture.
The others all went ahead and properly secured seats up front, but we lazy ones would always enter later and claim the desk in the farthest corner.
That morning too, following this same routine, we lingered in the second-floor corridor with its fine view until just before the final bell rang.
Dr. Fujioka’s linguistics lecture had every right to exist if only for his sonorous voice and grotesque japes. Though for those like myself—innately deficient in linguistic-mindedness—one might just as well say it had that right solely on those grounds without issue.
And so today too, taking and abandoning notes by turns, I listened with half that very interest—and no small amusement—to the lecture about Max Müller’s theories.
Then, in the seat before me sat a long-haired student, strands of his hair occasionally swishing past my notes like a broom.
Since I never even learned this person’s name, I had lost every opportunity to this very day to inquire into his reasoning for maintaining such long hair. But in any case, it was precisely during this linguistics lecture that I discovered how even if his hairstyle aligned with his own aesthetic needs, it could still conflict with others’ practical demands.
But fortunately, since my practical need to attend that lecture wasn’t so pressing, I simply abandoned taking notes wherever his hair interfered.
Even in places where it wasn’t a hindrance, I decided to draw pictures instead of taking notes.
But just as I had half-finished sketching the profile of some ultra-modern student sitting across from me—what was his name again?—the bell rang most unfortunately.
The bell that announced the end of the lecture simultaneously signaled that it had turned noon.

We went together to the second floor of Ippakusha in front of the university and ate twenty-sen boxed meals with soda water.
While eating, we discussed various matters.
Between myself and Naruse existed a friendship with no considerable barriers.
Moreover, at that time, we shared many points of agreement in our intellectual outlook as well.
What’s more, we had both coincidentally started reading Jean-Christophe at the same time and were equally impressed by it.
So at times like this, even though we met face-to-face almost daily, our conversations still tended to become lively.
Then, the waiter Tani came over to where the two of us were and began talking about stock prices.
“You’ve got to be ready to end up like this if things go south,” he declared with great flair, thrusting his hands behind his back as if demonstrating handcuffs.
Naruse said “How absurd,” and paid him no mind, but I—who at the time was planning a novel called Wallet—found it intriguing in various ways, so I kept Tani company until we finished eating.
And then I was taught about ten peculiar stock market terms all at once by him.

Because there were no afternoon lectures, after leaving Ippakusha, the two of us went to visit Kume, who was lodging nearby in Miyauti.
Kume was an even greater slacker than we were, so he typically skipped classes altogether and wrote novels and plays at his lodging instead.
When we arrived, he had set up a kotatsu by his desk and was reading *The Brothers Karamazov* or something of the sort.
At his urging, when we too settled into the kotatsu, the oily smell of the quilt struck our noses along with the smoky odor.
Kume said he was now writing a short story about his father, who had killed himself during his childhood.
He added that since this novel was effectively his debut work, he was struggling to find his bearings.
Yet he maintained his usual cheerful demeanor and didn’t seem particularly troubled.
After that, when he asked, “And how about you?” I replied, “I’ve managed to write about half of ‘The Nose.’”
Naruse too had apparently started writing about his trip to the Japanese Alps that summer.
Then the three of us drank coffee Kume had prepared while discussing our creative endeavors at length.

In terms of literary experience, Kume had long been our senior.
At the same time, it remained true that in terms of expressive skill, he still held an edge over us.
In this regard, I was particularly amazed by Kume's ability to effortlessly compose three-act and one-act plays within remarkably short spans.
Thus among us, only Kume maintained substantial confidence in the literary position he occupied—or sought to occupy.
And this very confidence conversely acted as a force that roused self-assurance within us, who perpetually harbored the lament of lofty aspirations outstripping our grasp.
Indeed, had someone like myself not befriended Kume—had there been no chance to artificially manufacture inspiration through his provocation—I might have remained content as a mere reader throughout my life, never penning novels at all.

Given these circumstances, whenever our discussions turned to matters of creative work—or rather, to topics related to the literary world—it was invariably Kume among us who took the reins. That day too, he took the lead and vigorously stirred the debates, but I recall that Mr. Tayama Katai frequently came up as a topic due to some connection.

Now, looking back impartially, that the Naturalism movement imparted such a significant wave to the literary world was undoubtedly due in part to the force of Mr. Tayama’s character. To that extent, Mr. Tayama was—no matter how tedious his Wife and Country Teacher might be, or how juvenile his theory of flat description was—undeniably a figure worthy of commanding our respect as juniors; if not that, then at least sufficient to pique our interest. But regrettably, we of that time still lacked the magnanimity to properly appreciate the passion-rich character of Mr. Tayama. Therefore, in Mr. Tayama’s novels, we could consistently discover nothing but moonlight and sexual desire. At the same time, his essays and critiques—every time we were subjected to hearing about his dubious à la Huysmans conversion lifestyle—only served to remind us of the ludicrous contrast between Durtal and Mr. Tayama Katai, thereby inviting nothing but our derisive laughter.

Now, does this mean we regarded Mr. Tayama as an utter humbug? Not necessarily so. Admittedly, we did not consider Mr. Tayama in his roles as novelist or thinker to be anything more essential, but prior to those roles, we had acknowledged him as a travelogue writer. Sentimental landscape-painter—this was the nickname I had bestowed upon Mr. Tayama at the time. In truth, Mr. Tayama diligently wrote travelogues in between writing novels and essays. Or rather—to exaggerate slightly—many of his novels were themselves travelogues, merely inserting men and women who were devotees of Venus Libentina. And when he wrote those travelogues, Mr. Tayama was free, cheerful, and honest—radiating an innocence like a donkey that had found fresh grass. Therefore, within that domain alone, it was no issue to call Mr. Tayama unique or whatever else one pleased.

But to consider Mr. Tayama as a Naturalist novelist and moreover a leading figure of the literary world as a thinker was something we found even more detestable than we do now. To speak without reserve, even achievements such as Mr. Tayama’s in the Naturalism movement were dismissed with remarks like “Well, it was simply the times being what they were.” We scorned such remarks with contempt.

After roughly fanning such spirited debate, Naruse and I once again left Kume’s lodging.
When we departed, the brief winter daylight had already stretched long shadows across the thoroughfare.
Walking to the corner of Hongo Sanchome while feeling that well-known yet perennially nostalgic thrill of ours, we then boarded separate trains.

II

A few days had passed—this too on a day of fine weather.
After attending the morning lecture, I went with Naruse to Kume’s lodging, where we had lunch together.
Kume showed us the manuscript of a play that Kikuchi from Kyoto had sent that morning.
It was a one-act play titled *Sakata Tōjūrō’s Love*, featuring a renowned actor from the Tokugawa period as its protagonist.
When we read it at his urging, though the theme held interest, we found it cloying with antiquated dialogue like *tomozome chirimen* silk—a pale imitation of Mr. Nagai Kafū and Mr. Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s styles.
I promptly dismissed it as hackwork.
Naruse read it too and declared his dissent.
Kume, hearing our critiques, agreed: “I can’t admire it either.
The whole thing reeks of high school theatrics.”
He then resolved to write Kikuchi a letter conveying our collective judgment.
At that moment, Matsuoka fortuitously arrived.
Though we three were English literature students, Matsuoka alone had enrolled in philosophy.
Yet he too aspired to write creatively like us.
He stood closest to Kume among our group.
They had once roomed together—
a house behind the Artillery Arsenal that manufactured workmen’s uniforms.
Kume, ever the real-life Romantiker, often fantasized about donning those blue uniforms,
installing a Western desk in an atelier-like study,
and dubbing it “The Kume Masao Workshop.”
Whenever I visited them there,
I would recall these grandiose visions.
Yet even then,
Matsuoka seemed to nurture thoughts far removed from workmen’s garb.
Though still prone to sentimentality,
a religious fervor already permeated him abundantly.

While contemplating the construction of a Jerusalem that was neither Eastern nor Western, he loved reading Kierkegaard and dabbled in painting strange watercolors. I still remember clearly how one of his watercolor paintings from that time looked far more like a proper work when turned upside down. Afterward, when Kume moved to Miyaura, Matsuoka relocated his lodging to Hongo Gochome as well. And there he remained, writing a three-act play drawn from the life of Buddha.

The four of us sipped Kume’s handmade coffee once more and chattered animatedly about all manner of topics amidst the swirling haze of cigarette smoke.
At that time, it was just when Mr. Mushanokōji Saneatsu stood poised to ascend the summit of Parnassus.
Therefore, even among us, Mr. Mushanokōji’s works and assertions frequently became topics of discussion.
We generally found it delightful that Mr. Mushanokōji had thrown open the skylight of the literary world to let in fresh air.
This delight was likely a sentiment keenly felt only by the youth of our era—those who immediately followed in Mr. Mushanokōji’s footsteps—or perhaps by generations yet to come.
Therefore, it was inevitable that there would be a disparity in how literary circles and other critics evaluated Mr. Mushanokōji before our time versus after.
It was precisely the same as how evaluations of Mr. Tayama Katai differed between those eras.
(Though whether this disparity’s magnitude reflects reality more accurately in Mr. Mushanokōji’s case or Mr. Tayama’s remains questionable.)
(To clarify—I do not mean this equivalence extends to matters of degree.) Yet even we of that time did not recognize Mr. Mushanokōji as the literary world’s Messiah.
The eyes viewing him as a writer and those viewing him as a thinker—between these two perspectives existed an inherent difference.
As a writer, Mr. Mushanokōji had been too hasty in pursuing his works’ completion, leaving much wanting.
Though he himself had often written in his *Miscellaneous Thoughts* about form and content’s inseparable relationship, he—relying more on fervor than patience—repeatedly neglected this delicate interplay in actual practice.
Thus did form, which he had hitherto regarded coldly, begin gradually rebelling against him with each work following *His Sister*.
And from his plays faded those outstanding dramatic elements—not entirely vanished, mind you.
Even in *A Certain Young Man’s Dream*—which some critics dismiss as not being a proper play—there remain scenes achieving powerfully dramatic expression when considered individually.) Roles speaking solely of Mr. Mushanokōji himself began proliferating where characters once spoke with their own voices.
Moreover, borrowing dramatic expressions lacking inevitability rendered the thoughts and emotions articulated there all the more diluted compared to those found in his *Miscellaneous Thoughts*.
We who had cherished Mr. Mushanokōji’s works since *A Certain Family*’s day found much wanting in this tendency emerging after *His Sister*.
Yet simultaneously, it remained true that within many of his *Miscellaneous Thoughts* lurked a vigorous force like a great wind—one capable of fanning our inner flames of idealism into brilliant conflagrations.
Certain critics often highlight logical flaws when advocating his *Miscellaneous Thoughts*.
But to accept that only logic-confirmed truths constitute truth would require us to possess far fewer human qualities than we do.

No—rather, to be earnest above all else before those very human qualities—that was one of the great truths Mr. Mushanokōji had elucidated.
Humanity, long mired in the sludge of Naturalism and having lost its original visage, like that Emmaus’s Christ, “saw the sun decline and dusk arrive.”
When humanity reappeared in the literary world, how fervently we must have felt, alongside Mr. Mushanokōji, that “our hearts burned with passion!”
Indeed, even someone like myself—counted by society as one of those writers diametrically opposed to Mr. Mushanokōji’s tendencies—still finds, upon rereading his *Miscellaneous Thoughts* even today, that the old swelling excitement always returns with a kind of nostalgia.
We—or at least I—had been shown by him the precedent of “riding on a donkey’s colt”
To welcome humanity, we had been shown by him the precedent of “spreading their garments on the road or cutting branches from trees and spreading them on the road.”

After talking extensively, we all left Kume’s lodging together.
After that, at Honkō Sanchōme, we parted ways with Naruse and Matsuoka.

Kume and I took the train to Ginza, finished a slightly early dinner at Café Lion, and then briefly went into the standing area of the Kabukiza.
Upon entering, we found ourselves watching the second piece of a new kabuki play whose plot—and even its title—remained utterly unfamiliar to us.
On the stage stood a poorly constructed tea room with artificial white plum blossoms scattered about, their shellwork-like flowers clustered together.
There on the tea room’s veranda, the Nakachusha samurai was attempting to woo Utaemon’s daughter.
Though raised in Tokyo’s downtown, I had developed such indifference toward Edo-esque aesthetics that I could rarely summon any dramatic illusion when watching plays—
(Or perhaps I had been conditioned into such coldness.)
I had attended theater since age two, often with family.) Thus I found more interest in actors’ performances than the plays themselves—and greater fascination still in observing the pit-seat spectators.
That day too, what captivated me most was the man beside me—a shopkeeper-type in a hunting cap—devouring sweet chestnuts while fixated on the stage, far more intriguing than any famed actor.
This man supposedly watched with fervor, yet matched that intensity in his chestnut consumption.
His hand would dart into his pocket to fish out a chestnut, crack it open lightning-fast, then pop it in his mouth—only to repeat the process immediately after swallowing.
Through it all, his eyes never wavered from the stage.
I marveled at this nimble division between sight and taste, studying his profile until curiosity overwhelmed me: Which activity truly held his focus?
Just then, Kume beside me recklessly bellowed: “Tachibanaya!”
Startled, my eyes snapped toward the stage.
There indeed appeared a Hazaemon young samurai—seemingly skilled only in seduction—strolling calmly along the garden path.
Yet my neighboring shopkeeper kept munching chestnuts, eyes devouring the stage as if deaf to Kume’s shout.
Now the absurdity struck me as too earnest for laughter.
And within that moment bloomed a sensation akin to fiction itself.
But even Tachibanaya’s entrance couldn’t salvage the play’s vulgarity—surpassing even Mr. Ikeda Terukata’s garish paintings.
When the stage rotated at last, I seized the chance to drag Kume outside.

After stepping out onto the starlit thoroughfare, I said, "Making such a loud noise like that was idiotic," but Kume boasted, "What? That was quite a good voice!" and stubbornly refused to acknowledge his folly.
Even now when I recall that incident, I can only think he was cursed by the whiskey he drank at Café Lion.

III

“When it comes to university pure literature departments—they’re quite dubious things. Well now, there are literature departments for Japanese, Chinese, English, French, and German—but what do you suppose they’re all actually doing? To tell the truth, even I don’t clearly understand what they’re doing. Indeed, their research likely doesn’t differ from simply studying the literatures of various countries. And that so-called literature can no doubt be called a branch of art or something along those lines. But that academic discipline which studies literature—is that truly a scholarly field? (Or perhaps we could call it an independent academic discipline.) If we are to consider it a scholarly field—to put it more rigorously, if it meets the necessary conditions to qualify as Wissenschaft—if we do that, wouldn’t it just become the same as aesthetics? No—not just aesthetics. As for something like literary history, I’ve always thought it was the same as history from the very beginning. Now, it’s certainly true that even among the lectures currently offered in pure literature departments, there are plenty with no connection to aesthetics or historiography. But those many lectures cannot even be considered academic disciplines as a formality, can they? To put it generously, they’re expressions of the professors’ impressions; to put it harshly, they’re pure nonsense. Therefore, I truly think it would be better to abolish university pure literature departments altogether. Literary theory and such should be combined with aesthetics. Literary history should be relegated to historiography. And then, since the remaining lectures are essentially nonsense, they should be driven out of the university. If it’s too harsh to call it nonsense, then one might as well say it’s too lofty and ill-suited for a place like a university that aims for scholarly research. This is indeed an urgent task at present. Otherwise, even if it's the same nonsense, university lectures are more likely to foster the misconception that they’re superior to critiques published in newspapers or magazines.”

"The truth is, what appears in newspapers and magazines must face public scrutiny, while university lectures only address students—allowing their true inadequacies to remain concealed."
"That such safe nonsense gains even greater prestige—no matter how you look at it—is fundamentally unjust."
In truth, someone like me could coast through university irresponsibly with nothing more than vague intentions to read library books—but were I to develop genuine scholarly ambitions, I’d surely find myself utterly bewildered about how one even approaches literary study.
If one were to analyze English literature linguistically like Mr. Ichikawa Sanki, that would constitute properly rigorous scholarship.
But doing so would reduce even Shakespeare or Milton to mere strings of English words—no longer poetry nor drama.
In that case, I’d lack all motivation to pursue it, and even if I tried, it would likely come to nothing.
Of course, if one finds satisfaction in nonsense, that’s perfectly fine—but then there’s no need to trouble oneself with university enrollment at all.
Moreover, for those wishing to conduct research from aesthetic or historical perspectives, enrolling in other departments would surely prove far more sensible.
Considering this, pure literature departments’ raison d'être seems at best a matter of mere convenience.
But however convenient they may be, if their harm outweighs their benefits, they’re worse than nonexistent by definition."
"If they’re inferior, abolishing them becomes imperative.—What? Are they supposedly essential for training middle school teachers?"
"I’m not being facetious."
"This remains an entirely earnest argument."
"For training middle school teachers, we already have the proper institution called Higher Normal Schools."
"Suggesting we abolish Higher Normal Schools would be pure absurdity."
"By that very logic, it’s university pure literature departments that should be abolished, with Higher Normal Schools promptly absorbing their functions instead."

One day around that time, while walking down Kanda Street—lined with nothing but secondhand bookstores—I caught hold of Naruse and launched into such a debate.

IV

One evening as November was drawing to a close, Naruse and I went to listen to the Philharmonic concert at the Imperial Theatre. When we arrived, we encountered Kume over there wearing the same uniform as us. At that time, I was considered the most musically knowledgeable among us—which says more about how utterly disconnected we all were from music than any real expertise on my part. But even I had merely wandered through concerts aimlessly, with true appreciation being beyond me and even basic understanding remaining dubious at best. The limit of my comprehension stopped decisively at Liszt. Once at the Imperial Hotel, when that elderly woman called Mrs. Petzold played Liszt’s Der heilige Antonius schreitend auf den Wellen (if I misremember the title, I beg pardon), each piano note had conjured before my eyes a ceaselessly flowing scene—a strangely vivid tableau that hovered with lifelike clarity. Within that vision, waves moved endlessly wherever one looked. Upon those waves, human feet stepped rhythmically, creating ripples with each motion. Finally above both waves and feet blazed a dazzling light that shifted through the air like sunlight caught in wind gusts. As I stared breathlessly at this luminous illusion, the music’s final vibrations dissolved into applause, leaving me steeped in the hollow desolation of my surroundings. But as I’ve noted before, Liszt marked my outermost boundary—when it came to works like Beethoven’s, they might be deemed good or bad depending on perspective, but for me they remained fundamentally incomprehensible. Thus even our attendance at this Philharmonic concert found us pressing suspiciously unartistic ears against the orchestral tempest blowing from that forest of instruments, listening with vacant detachment.

That evening, with His Imperial Highness Prince Kayanomiya also in attendance, ladies and young women in patterned kimonos sat scattered throughout the Imperial Theatre’s boxes and our orchestra stalls. Right beside me sat an emaciated old woman caked in white powder—gold rings on her fingers, a gold watch chain dangling from her waist, a gold obi clasp glinting at her midsection, and when she yawned mid-performance, a mouthful of gold teeth flashing—all maintained with impeccable poise. Yet unlike my previous experience standing in the Kabukiza Theatre’s gallery, tonight Chopin and Schubert held far greater interest than these gentlemen and ladies of leisure, so I spared no further attention for this powdered golden relic beside me. To be fair, she seemed an even more formidable presence than myself—a veritable Disraeli incarnate—utterly ignoring Mr. Kōsaku Yamada’s baton-wielding fervor onstage while perpetually scanning her surroundings.

During that intermission—likely prompted by Mrs. Yamada’s solo—we three made our way to the second-floor smoking room. There at the entrance stood a short man in a black suit with a red waistcoat, smoking gold-tipped cigarettes alongside a companion in hakama and haori. Spotting him, Kume leaned close to our ears and whispered, “That’s Tanizaki Jun’ichirō.” As Naruse and I passed by, we stole furtive glances at this renowned aesthete’s face—a striking visage where an animalistic mouth and spiritual eyes seemed locked in rivalry.

We settled onto the long bench, sharing a box of Shikishima cigarettes as we dissected Tanizaki’s work. At that time, he was cultivating literal Fleurs du Mal in those eerie aestheticist fields he’d pioneered—works like “The Tattooer,” “The Genius,” and “Osai and Minosuke,” each leaving an unsettling aftertaste. Yet these beautiful evil blooms, mottled like tortoiseshell cats, differed fundamentally from his adored Poe and Baudelaire’s creations despite sharing their solemn stench of decay.

Their brand of morbid aestheticism concealed a terrifyingly ruthless heart beneath its surface. Compelled by karmic burdens of stone-cold hearts, they’d been forced to discard morality, then God, then love itself. Even as they wallowed in decadence’s stagnant marshes, they still had to grapple with unresolved hearts—hearts like une vieille gabare sans mâts sur une mer monstrueuse et sans bords—in ceaseless confrontation.

Thus their aestheticism became swarms of moths erupting helplessly from their hearts’ abyssal depths. Consequently, their works perpetually reeked of desperate invocations—“Ah! Seigneur, donnez-moi la force et le courage / De contempler mon cœur et mon corps sans dégoût!”—clinging like miasma. What inspired our solemn awe was precisely this exposure to a heart’s infernal torment—some hellish Don Juan’s anguish.

Yet Mr. Tanizaki’s aestheticism swapped this suffocating paralysis for hedonistic ease. He sailed leisurely across seas where sin’s bioluminescent creatures flickered, as though questing for El Dorado himself. Herein lay why he evoked Goethe—that very figure he disdained—for Goethe’s morbid tendencies, though tinted with fin de siècle hues like Baudelaire’s, pulsed with vital energy—the malaise of some corpulent sultan groaning under gemstone-laden robes.

To put it more playfully, it was the morbid tendency of an obese Sultan suffering under the weight of his jewels.
Therefore, in him—as well as in Mr. Tanizaki—there was a lack of the urgent sensibility common to Poe and Baudelaire.
But instead—when it came to articulating sensory beauty—they possessed an astonishing eloquence akin to a river churning waves across a hundred leagues.
(I believe that when Mr. Hirotsu Kazuo recently criticized Mr. Tanizaki for being "too healthy," he was pointing to this very vitality-filled morbid tendency. But no matter how overflowing with vigor one may be, as long as patients suffering from obesity exist, Mr. Tanizaki’s works must still be deemed a morbid tendency.) And yet even we, who remained unsatisfied with this aestheticism, could not help but acknowledge his extraordinary power—such was the overwhelming force of his eloquence.
Mr. Tanizaki dredged up every conceivable Japanese and Chinese word, inlaying all manner of sensory beauty (or ugliness) into his post-"The Tattooer" works like mother-of-pearl.
Moreover, Mr. Tanizaki’s Les Emaux et Camées were consistently maintained throughout from beginning to end with a resplendent thread of rhythm.
Even today, when I have the opportunity to read Mr. Tanizaki’s works, I often feel a semi-physiological pleasure arising not so much from the meaning of each word or phrase as from the unceasing flow of his prose’s rhythm.
Even at that time, here too, Mr. Tanizaki remained, as he does now, an unparalleled weaver of words.
Even if Mr. Tanizaki had not lit the "star of terror" in the bleak firmament of the literary world, beneath the mottled flowers he cultivated, an untimely sabbath of Japanese witches had commenced—

Before long, with the signal bell announcing the resumption of the performance, we cut short our discussion of Tanizaki Jun’ichirō and returned to our seats below.
On our way back, Kume asked, “Do you actually understand music?” To which I replied, “I’d say I grasp it better than the gold, bones, skin, and powder next to me.”
Then we sat down again next to that elderly lady and listened to Mr. Schultze’s piano performance.
Indeed, I believe it was something like Chopin’s Nocturne.
A man named Simmons advertised that as a child he had properly understood Chopin’s funeral march. But as I watched Mr. Schultze’s dexterously moving fingers—even without accounting for age differences—I resigned myself to never measuring up to Simmons in this regard.
What happened after that I no longer remember.
But when we went outside after the event ended, so many horse-drawn carriages and automobiles were lined up around the carriage porch that passage became impossible.
And in one of those automobiles sat that old woman of gold and white powder about to board while burying her face in fur.
We turned up our coat collars and finally made our way out into the wind-chilled thoroughfare.

When I looked up suddenly, there before us loomed the drab building of the Metropolitan Police Department, black against the sky, thrusting upward into the air.
As I walked, I somehow became uneasy about the presence of the Metropolitan Police Department there.

“That’s odd,” I blurted out inadvertently, whereupon Naruse demanded, “What?”
“No—it’s nothing,” I replied evasively, brushing off his question.

By then, horse-drawn carriages and automobiles were already bustling past us on both sides.

V

The day after attending the Philharmonic concert—after finishing Dr. Ōtsuka’s morning lecture on Rickert’s philosophy (the most intellectually stimulating one I’d ever attended)—Naruse and I deliberately went to eat twenty-sen boxed lunches at Isshaku-sha amidst the wintry winds. He suddenly asked me, “Do you know the woman sitting behind us last night?”

“I don’t know. The only things I know are the gold, skin, bone, and powder next door.”

“Gold and skin—what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. In any case, she definitely wasn’t the woman behind us. Did you go and fall for her too?”

“Far from falling for her—I didn’t even know who she was.”

“How dull. If it’s someone like that, whether they’re there or not makes no difference.”

“But here’s the thing—when I got home, Mutaa asked if I’d seen the woman behind us. Apparently she was my potential bride candidate.”

“So it was an arranged meeting?”

“It’s probably not as formal as that yet.”

“If they wanted you to see her, then isn’t that an arranged meeting? Your Mutaa’s being roundabout too. If they meant to show her off, they should’ve seated her up front. If they could see what’s behind them, they wouldn’t be eating twenty-sen bento like this.”

Naruse, being a dutiful son, made a slightly odd face when I said this.

“But if we consider it from that woman’s perspective, then we’re the ones who were sitting in front.”
“Ah, right—if both sides wanted to face each other there, one party would’ve had to climb onto the stage. But then, what did you say in reply?”
“I told you I didn’t see her.”
“Well, I didn’t actually see her, so what else could I do?”
“What’s the use of venting your frustration at me now?”
“But what a waste.”
“The problem was that it was a concert.”
“If it had been a play, I’d have checked every single spectator at the Imperial Theatre for you without being asked.”—Naruse and I burst out laughing uproariously over this exchange.

That afternoon, there was German class.
But back then, under the pretext of attending "I am sick" or some such excuse, if Naruse went, I would skip, and if I went, Naruse would skip.
And so we would take turns adding kana annotations to a single textbook, then cram by reading it together before exams.
As it happened, that afternoon’s German class fell to Naruse’s turn, so after finishing my meal, I handed the textbook over to Naruse and went out alone outside Isshaku-sha.

When I stepped outside, a wintry gust was churning clouds of sand into the street's sky. The yellow ginkgo leaves from the avenue's trees spun wildly within this turbulence before being swept all the way to the rear of the old bookstore facing the university. I suddenly found myself wanting to visit Matsuoka.

Matsuoka—unlike myself, and likely most people—professed that blustery days brought him greatest calm. Reasoning he'd be particularly settled on such a day, I battled wind gusts threatening to snatch my hat before finally reaching his boarding house in Hongō Fifth District. The elderly landlady met me at the entrance wearing a pained expression. "Mr. Matsuoka is still resting," she said.

"Still asleep? What a champion sluggard."

"Oh no—he worked through the night and only just retired to bed moments ago."

"He might still be awake then."

"Let me just go check upstairs."

"If he's sleeping, I'll come right back down."

I muffled my footsteps while ascending to Matsuoka's second-floor room. Opening the stairwell's sliding door revealed a dim chamber with multiple partitions, his futon occupying its center.

Beside the pillow stood a rickety makeshift desk buried under manuscript pages. Beneath it lay old newspapers blanketed by a conical mound of peanut shells resembling cedar foliage. I recalled Matsuoka's oft-mentioned three-act play.

"He's at it"—ordinarily I'd have announced this while settling at his desk to read completed pages. But today's Matsuoka lay motionless, unshaven face pressed into a cylindrical pillow as though deceased.

Naturally I wouldn't dream of rousing him from hard-won rest after an all-nighter. Yet departing immediately felt unsatisfying. So I sat by his pillow awhile, leafing through scattered manuscript pages.

All the while, the winter wind continued to shake the second floor, passing through without cease.
But Matsuoka still lay there, emitting nothing but quiet breaths.
I eventually concluded there was no point lingering like this. With reluctant effort, I raised my stiffened hips and quietly prepared to leave his bedside.
When I suddenly looked at Matsuoka’s face then, he lay asleep with tears pooled between his eyelashes.
Ah, no—come to think of it, traces of tears had also remained on his cheeks.
When I noticed this unexpected expression on Matsuoka’s face, the cheerful feeling I’d had earlier—that thought of “he’s at it”—vanished in an instant.
And in its place, an unbearable sense of helplessness—as if I too had struggled all night, diligently writing manuscripts—suddenly welled up in my chest.
“What a fool he is.”
“Don’t take on work so painful it makes you cry while sleeping.”
“What’ll you do if you wreck your health?”—Amid that helplessness, I wanted to scold Matsuoka like this.
But even as I wanted to scold him, deep down I found myself inwardly wanting to praise him: “You really suffered through all that.”
When I thought this, I found myself—without realizing when—on the verge of tears.

Then, stealing my footsteps once more, I descended the ladder-like stairs—whereupon the boarding house landlady asked with apparent concern, “Is he resting?”
I replied brusquely, “He’s sleeping well,” and not wanting my tear-streaked face to be seen, stepped out into the wintry wind of the street.
The street remained unchanged, with sand dust whirling up into the sky.
And in that sky, something howled fiercely.
Since it bothered me, I looked up to find only a small sun, white against the zenith’s expanse.
I stood on the asphalt street, remaining there as I wondered which way to go.

(December 1918)